That's Not a Poem

"That's not a poem!"
the critic said.
"That's just prose
chopped up into
little pieces!"

"Fuck you, critic!"
I said,
and pushed him
into the street.
He was struck by a bus
and killed instantly.

The police were called.
When they arrived
they lifted me up
on to their shoulders.
A parade was organized
in my honour.
I was carried through the streets
and the people all cheered.

The critic's body
was left in the street.
Stray dogs chewed on his bones
and little children played soccer
with the dead critic's skull.

Now we can write
whatever the hell we want
and we don't have to worry what
some pretentious asshole thinks
because he is dead.